Cranberry Springs
by almost-never
Summary: It's a petty business, selling yourself over and over and over to countless people who'd pay big bucks for a few hours of onesided paradise.


**Disclaimer:** I don't own. I watch...obsessively.

**A/N:** It's been awhile since I've written anything; actually, it's been awhile since I've ventured onto at all. This one's a Manny fic, taking place in the future sometime. I'm not sure if I like how it turned out, but the idea's been swimming in my head for awhile. Read, review, and enjoy.

**Cranberry Springs**

It's one of those feelings - uncomfortable, nauseating, and downright squeamish - pulsing through my body. I feel as though I'm slime. I am slime, maybe. I'm as slippery and dark as a swamp or an eel and I'm minding it.

My mouth is sticky and I can feel the sweat beading on my forehead. I hug my overcoat to my body to keep warm. It is a September evening after all and you can't wear black mesh over an ass-hugging black skirt and black bra and expect not to feel chilly. Plus it keeps people from touching me in a way that I don't want to be touched.

Kind of ironic, actually. Really, people's hands are all over me almost every day. You'd think that I'd be used to it by now. But I'm not - not at all. But it pays well and provides a sort of dead thrill - a listless, dead thrill that comes as a package deal with quick lays in some sexually-deprived stranger's bed.

It's a beautiful apartment building. I'm still standing here, knees knocking and long dark hair flying, steeling myself so I could be brave enough to go inside. The building is old and a faded, dark orange. The walls are bumpy and the windows and doors are arched. You'd expect to see dark red cushions and heavy black curtains - and even a fireplace - inside. Something from the early 20th century, I'd say. Add a clanging cable car and we'd practically be in San Francisco.

Enough stalling. The silver imitation watch looped around my flimsy wrist says I'm three minutes late. No one can afford to be late. Quickly, I rummage through my black Prada purse (with one of its As missing) and find a mirror.

A foreign face stares back at me. Brownish smooth skin. Dark eyes flanked by endless rings of smudgy makeup. Hair slightly scrunched and wavy from the wind. A tight, frowning mouth the shade of dark cranberries. Rotten cranberries.

I take quick breaths, willing myself to be composed and sexy like I'm supposed to be. And once that's enough and done, I smooth down my hair so it doesn't look so wild and open the door.

I'm not sure how I ended up at the whorehouse where I now live and work. That is to say the whorehouse dubbed the House by the residents; the workers. It's a petty business, selling yourself over and over and over to countless men who want you so badly that they'd pay big bucks for a few hours of one-sided paradise. All I know is that I was nineteen. I was a fledging slut and a dead being, trudging around in my hot pink tracksuits and whatnot. It was a quick transformation from bright colours and ugly earrings to black semi-nakedness and refined dirt. And it was easy. I could be anyone I wanted to be; I could pretend to be dark and world-hating and be the sex to your throats. I could be Manuela Santos instead of just Manny.

So Manuela Santos, aged twenty-four, steps through the door.

Arrange face. Smile at security. Calm self.

I wish I hadn't worn those stilettos. They're pinching my feet and sinking into the dark green carpeting as I press the elevator button. I swipe my hair from my face and I feel my lipstick smearing.

The elevator rides are always the worst part of my routine -you're almost there and dreading what's to come but the ride would never end, killing you with moths in your stomach and it always stinks a bit like someone's food in that cramped square of space.

I push _3_ and find the piece of paper that holds the client's address and unfold it carefully.

_C.M.  
__384 Elm Ave. #306  
__8:00 pm, September 7_

Names aren't important, but I like to try to guess anyway. It's his birthday and his friends,decided to buy him some sex. He's gotta be classy, to live in an elegant apartment like this one. Last name, probably something on the dark side, Morgan. The first name would have to match Morgan. Possibly Chris or Cael or Cyd.

The elevator makes an upbeat dinging noise.

The moths are flapping around. The bile rises higher. Perspiration begins to gather above my lip, probably smudging my careful makeup even more. The door to #306 looms, ominous and foreboding. I clumsy undo the top button of my coat and straighten all that mesh.

_Clack, clack, clack_ goes the sharp sound of my heels tapping against the shiny floor.

I quickly knock and let myself in. It's a one-bedroom flat and eerily quiet. I fleetingly wonder if the guy's even here. The apartment is cluttered and I feel a slight sag of disappointment from the realization that the inside isn't as beautiful as the exterior. The walls are pasty and the entire place smells like a mixture of tar, metal, and soap. Get used to it, I tell myself. I'll be here for the next few hours, anyway.

I rap quickly on the door that has a garish sign that says, "HAPPY BIRTHDAY!" on it in rounded bubble letters, fresh and straight from the dollar store, probably. No one answers.

This is so stupid.

I open the door. Another pasty white room with the same old smell. A lump of a grey quilt is piled up on a small bed. I cringe inwardly.

There's something wrong. I don't know what, but the feeling is creeping up my spine and making me shiver. Once again, it's that indescribable squirmy vibe that makes me feel as though I'm a piece of raw squid.

And I'm right- there is something wrong. The first clue is that there's no sound. The second is the fact that the floor is somewhat sticky and my stilettos are clinging to the floor and it takes effort to detach my feet from the wood. The second clue is that the mound of grey on the bed isn't moving - it's unnerving.

I clear my throat quickly, unbuttoning my boat and thrust out my chest.

"Happy birthday."

I slowly make my way towards the bed and stretch out my hand, pulling back the quilt. The fishnets are chafing my calves as I walk and I want to get this over with, as quickly as possible so I could go back to the House and watch some TV or something.

Scream. Scream again. Don't look. Shut your eyes.

It's disgusting and I feel like I might hurl. He's there, bleeding, his face buried in his pillow and a knife still clenched tightly around his red fingers. There are thick, irregular lines on his other wrist, the blood dark and still oozing slowly. And then I understand the stickiness and the silence. It's death and the piercing silence is repulsive and I don't know what to do with myself.

My heel slides suddenly and I bend down, picking up a torn photo and staining my fingernails. Two people, a guy and a woman. It's him - dark, curly hair and a wide grin. A woman with longish brown hair and large blue eyes. She's beautiful and familiar, though her hair had been shorter the last time I had seen her. I had heard about them breaking up before their senior year and making up after that summer. She must have done it again and it probably had been unbearable. Especially with his disorder.

He isn't Chris Morgan at all.

My face is crumpling madly and I am a mess. It's the kind of hysterical crying that stabs your heart over and over and tightens your throat so you're choking the sobs out, wishing you could die - die with him and never have to see his bloody state again.

Dial 911. Shriek out the address, state the reason. Hang up.

Run.

That's all there is, now. Running down the hall, your shoes still sticky and probably staining the floor, and then pounding on the elevator button with your thumb.

I collide with the janitor somewhere in the lobby and rush out, crying, until I find a deserted alley somewhere on a different street. So this is my life. This is my first real boyfriend, dead and ready to buy me before he decided to spill the blood of himself.

The ground is bumpy and it digs slightly into my ass, but I could hardly feel anything at this point. At this point, it's shock of the worst kind. I tear open my purse and the other A flies off.

Find pouch of weed- it's practically empty. Smoke the whole thing away.

Forget. Forget. Forget.

The inside of my mouth feels like a prick; a cactus and my lips are wet from the sweat. It stains the smoke, interrupting the stench with the faint sweet aroma of makeup. It's sickening and I take it out of my mouth, trailing it against my chin. The tears are still slipping and oozing, me with black lines all over my cheeks and red lines against my chin. Like cranberry springs. Like his blood making spiderwebs on his pallid arm.

I faintly register the sound of sirens, a strip of blue and red light tinting my knees before disappearing with the sound. The smoke is dangling limply from my bloody fingers and I'm starting to feel the daze.

His image never leaves my mind. I'm stoned senseless and his dead self is still ingrained there, like a shock of red and black, like my ridiculous sex attire, like dead cranberries and dried blood.

Night is falling and I can't seem to move. I don't think I want to. But I don't want to be found by some homeless men, with me and my torn skirt and skanky heels and visible bra. And again with the total irony - I don't want them to go near me.

Jacket on. Close purse. Smoke drop on ground.

I pick myself up and lean against a wall momentarily before making my way down the darkening streets, still hugging my dirty jacket against myself and numbly walking back to the House; maybe lying on my bed, alone for a change.

Behind me, there's a spectacle as a bloody thing is being lifted out of a building. Cranberry springs indeed.

**The End**


End file.
